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I frown at her for breaking the civilian barrier, but I can’t fault her. I’ve made her feel far too comfortable while she treks after killers.
“Not a single clue for me to sink my teeth into.” I sigh as I glance over at the lifeless woman not three feet away.
“The car door was slightly opened,” Lottie says, clutching at her neck as she inspects the vehicle.
“She was most likely just about to get out of the car.”
“Probably.” Lottie nods. “But then, there’s no bullet entry point from the windshield or any other part of the car, so she may have opened the door when she saw the killer coming. I mean, if it was a homicidal maniac wielding a gun, your instincts would be to make sure the car was locked, right? Noah, that means she knew the killer.”
I tip my head to the side and keep it that way for a minute.
“Very good observation, Detective Lemon.” I’m not happy about it, but she is right. “As much as I want to demand that you go home and get out of the crosshairs of whatever this is becoming, I know for a fact it’s too late for that. What was in that bag you took? And for Pete’s sake, why did you take it?”
She bites down on her lip. “I haven’t had time to look inside, but Marlena was telling my mother and her writing group that she went to Bella’s house and took a few things.”
“Bella Hall?” My eyes bug out as Lottie nods. “Marlena went into Bella’s place? You think she took evidence of some kind?”
“Oh, I know she did. I just don’t know what. She mentioned something about vital implements and then something to do with the book series they were working on.” She shrugs. “Apparently, Crane and Danya were up in arms over it. Oh, and Marlena said that she and Bella didn’t keep any secrets from each other.” She cringes. “Or was it that she knew all of Bella’s secrets? It doesn’t matter. Noah, do you think someone could have killed Marlena to silence her?”
“Anything is possible.” I take a full breath. “You mentioned Crane and Danya were visibly upset this afternoon?”
“And verbally. But I was too far away to hear what they were saying.”
Forest Donovan and Lou Norris from the fire department stride over.
“I can’t believe this keeps happening.” Lou shakes his head.
“Unfortunately, I can,” Forest says as he looks at Lottie. “Especially when my sister-in-law is at the scene.” Lottie gives him a disgruntled look as he turns my way. “We should consider locking her up in the house for a year just to see if the homicide rate goes down.”
“Very funny,” Lottie growls. “Not that this is the appropriate time for humor.”
Lou leans toward the car and shakes his head. “She was shot, huh?”
“Yes,” I say. “And now we need forensics to confirm my suspicions. I think whoever killed Bella may have killed Marlena.”
“Did forensics figure out the make of the projectile that killed the last victim?” Lou asks.
Forest elbows his friend. “Lou here is our resident expert on firearms.”
“Ex-military,” Lou says with a somewhat bashful smile. “Plus, my old man was a gun enthusiast. I learned everything I know about firearms from him.”
I give an approving nod his way. “I’m glad someone in the firehouse knows their way around a weapon. Do you carry?”
“Everywhere I go.” He pulls back his shirt to reveal a Glock, and from the model number, I can tell it’s a 31 that shoots .357 SIG. I’m familiar with it because it’s not too unlike the gun Everett and I gifted Lottie.
“Glock 31,” I say. “The bullet that killed Bella was a 40-caliber that ballistics says came from a Smith & Wesson barrel.”
“Good work.” Lou gives a wistful tick of his head. “I’m guessing the killer has no idea that each bullet fired from a barrel is as unique as a fingerprint. It’s time to find whoever owns that gun before they take another life.”
The captain calls for them and they take off to control the blossoming crowd.
It’s as if all of Honey Hollow has shown up on the scene, and they have.
“Noah”—Lottie presses in close—“Bella had a concealed weapon. Maybe one of the other members of my mother’s writing group took the gun and killed Bella and Marlena with it?”
I shake my head. “Bella’s weapon was found in her purse the night she died. The gun hadn’t been fired, we checked. Besides, it was the wrong make and model.” I sigh because I know for a fact I’m going to regret what I’m about to say next. “Lottie, one of the women in your mother’s writing group does have a weapon registered in her name—the exact model that fires off a 40-caliber projectile.”
She sucks in a quick breath as curls bounce around her shoulders. “Which one?”
